Down & Out In Amsterdam

the dude, puff and some heineken

The Dude was a meek fellow who always had the look of confusion on his face. He was short, in his early 30's, with curly black hair and a genuinely mischievous grin. He wasn't sure how long he was staying in Amsterdam, where he was going next, or how long he'd been in Amsterdam for that matter.

One night at dinner, a spiritual conversation erupted amid the usual giggling babble and blank stares, after the departing trains of thought had left the station. When asked if he was religious, The Dude grinned and spouted, "I believe in sunsets."

I met The Dude while he was in mid-story. "... The guy told me to eat only half. But I didn't feel anything, so I ate it all, and things got very bad. So then, I took a train — very long trip. I think I left Amsterdam. It was starting to rain and I was feeling so anguished." Then The Dude smiled.

We devoured a couple dozen Heinekens while talking of travel-related horror tales. The Dude, with his broken English, provided the most laughter, although he never really understood why. And after a couple rounds of Puff the Magic Fatty , we were back in the dank alleys of Gotham, social misfits in search of food — the whole lot of us drooling madly.

food, glorious food

Amsterdam is the city that never sleeps, but always eats. Only one thing outnumbers the coffeeshops — the restaurants. All of the fast food joints showcased their fine assortment of grub in fancy glass fixtures, each food item looking hand-crafted with loving care.

The amounts and variety were dizzying. The pyramids of sandwiches, pizza and puff pastries seemed self-replenishing, creating an endless supply. But that was only a quick fix. What we needed then was inside seating and of course, more Heines.

At every corner, a new scintillating odor led our watered mouths in many directions. Although a rotting deer carcass, at that point in time, would have been perceived as a temptuous aroma. Indecision. We agreed to park our wobbly bodies at the next restaurant that crossed our path. And so it was — Mexican. We floated in, rudely examining others' entrées while being led to our seats.

The dinner conversation left much to the imagination. It was a regular Tower of Babel experience; each of us speaking in tongues. Amsterdam produces many fine mood-enhancing toxins, which in turn produces intellectually-impaired ramblers. The food was inhaled, the beer slammed and out the door we strolled. The girls had a plan... an X-rated one at that.